


Rust is But Another Form of Rot

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bureaucracy, Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: That alternate realityfix-itfic where it is Ferrus, not Fulgrim, who is initially swayed to Horus' side.





	Rust is But Another Form of Rot

0.

The youngest god is dissatisfied. Her favorite toy is broken beyond repair. No matter how she taunts and teases, croons or cajoles, he will not do anything.

"Kill him and be rid of him," the eldest advises.

"I cannot kill him," she protests, "He is my favorite."

"Give him to me," the second says, "And I will make him anew."

"I do not want him made anew," she answers, "I want him returned to before."

"I can do that," the god closest to her own age supplies. "For a price."

One glance at her listless champion, once golden and now gray, and her mind is made up. "Name it," she commands, and he only smiles.

-

1.

It begins with an absurd command. The sort of directive made by a bureaucrat who had never once set foot in the forges, much less lifted a hammer.

"This is ridiculous," the Magos of the Tech Priests on board the Fist of Iron complains, "How do they expect us to follow these instructions?!"

Ferrus frowns, reading the missive over a second time. "I can't imagine why anyone would write such a thing," he says at last, "I'll send a messenger to Terra, asking for clarification. Perhaps it's a mix-up. In the meantime, proceed as usual."

"A mix-up?" the mechanic snorts, "I don't envy whoever is at the receiving end of these orders!"

-

2.

Communication to Terra has gotten slower as of late. The Emperor is occupied with his latest project so he cannot lead the Great Crusade himself. But is he so busy, Ferrus finds himself sullenly thinking, that he cannot even administrate directly? The message he receives in response offers a banal apology with no clarification and though it is stamped with the Emperor's seal, his son can see -- clear as day -- that it was written by someone else's hand. At least the order at the end makes sense, if only because it says: proceed as usual. Why bother sending out a command if you would be forced to rescind it, Ferrus thinks to himself.

-

3.

The episode above is the first of many.

Ferrus Manus, being as much a lord of the forge as a lord of battle, is particularly attuned to the Mechanicum's sentiments. Quite frankly, their growing disgruntlement bordering on resentment -- not for the Emperor of course, they (and he) harbored nothing but adoration and goodwill for the Emperor -- for the bureaucrats who insisted on intruding and fixing what wasn't broken is a sentiment he would have felt himself, even if the Tech-Priests hadn't shared their thoughts.

"My lord," said engineer notes, binary flexing with exasperation, "I am truly at the end of my rope. You must send the Tithe-taker away or you will find his corpse in the kiln and I will not deny involvement!"

"He is still there?" Ferrus asks, furrowing his brow, "But I thought I told him to stay away from the Mechanicum quarters!"

"I do not know what orders you gave him, but he seeks to glean the secrets of the forge."

"I'll have him skinned alive. Disregarding a direct order like that!"

-

4.

Ferrus finds the bureaucrat -- in the middle of snooping about the entrance to his private forge, of all the damning positions -- and removes his head from the shoulders as he had promised.

In this instance, news reaches Terra near-instantaneously. Within two days, Gabriel Santar, his First Captain and equerry, is charged with an injunction.

"An injunction?" Santar asks, "What for?"

"For failing to keep my choler at bay apparently," Ferrus barks out a laugh, "Apparently Inspector so-and-so was the fourth son of a High Lord. But even a High Lord cannot censure me so they're going at my sons."

"What am I to do?"

"Nothing," Ferrus shuts off the dataslate, tossing it to the side. "I'll spin a tale, tell them that you've been confined to the dungeons to live on bread and water for a week as due penitence. The sort of drivel those paper-pushers eat up. Continue on with business as usual otherwise."

"Yessir," Santar pauses before leaving, "If I may add something, Lord Manus?"

"What?"

"I've spoken with Captains Abaddon and Kaesoron recently."

"Ah, at the fleet meeting, yes." Ferrus smiles at the memory of his brothers. His only definite allies in this unspoken internal struggle. "What did you glean from the conversation?"

"That is..." Santar rearranges his thoughts, trying to find a diplomatic way to go about it, "Their legions have received similarly absurd commands recently. There's even talk of sending Remembrancers to the Expeditions."

"Remembrancers? You mean the historians?" Ferrus grits his teeth at the thought, "I don't know what my father, beloved by all, is thinking at times. The idiots he's placed in charge have no idea what we're doing. Those artists never killed in their lives! They've likely not even seen blood!" he spat in disgust, "Bureaucrats and Remembrancers will be the death of us, mark my words, Gabriel."

-

5.

Sure enough, the Tenth Legion receives their own dispatch of Remembrancers within the year. The Inspectors and Auditors were bad enough, but the Remembrancers -- frail men and women who had no business in a forge, on a ship, or in a war -- are unbearable.

Ferrus orders them thrown off of the Fist of Iron at the nearest Imperial port, ignoring their protests and laughing in the face of the chief Iterator's threats. He is the son of the Emperor, the Primarch of the Iron Fists. How could a bureaucrat's child hope to punish him?

He finds out in the months to come, when supplies are sent late or, at times, not at all. There's poorly-masked anger dripping with contempt in the letters sent to him. The forges suffer and when he has to go for two weeks without crafting, because there wasn't enough raw material to spare, he thinks himself livid enough to fly to Terra himself just to wring the guilty party's neck.

-

6.

Just as he's about to launch an unplanned raid against an Ork cargo ship confirmed to be carrying precious and heavy metals, he receives a message from his oldest brother.

'There is something I wish to discuss with you in private,' Horus writes, 'Please make your way to Davin when possible.'

Although it's not an order, Ferrus nonetheless feels obliged to follow it. He takes a Thunderhawk and a couple legionaries from the First Company and sets off to Davin, puzzling over the curious message from the Warmaster for the whole of the transit.

-

7.

Horus illuminates him on Davin, connecting all the pieces of the puzzle which Ferrus had been so willfully blind to.

He tells him of his time spent in the space between life and death. Of the dark future he had seen and, most damning, the miserable present they had been thrust into.

The Emperor had indeed retired to work on a project of his own. It was meant to be a successor to the Astronomican, a way to navigate the Warp as well as sent information across. But the task had been too great. He is exhausted of all energy and bound to a Golden Throne, stuck in an undead state.

Ferrus reaches across the table, clasping his brother's shoulders and shaking violently. Have you gone mad, he demands; that's impossible, he insists.

And then he sees Horus cry.

His brother is not prone to overt displays emotion. None of them are. And so his sadness is no great sobbing fit. It is not even a trickle of tears, just a wetness in the corner of his eyes. And still, the sight of it shakes Ferrus to his core and he reminds himself that he is not the only one to suffer under the administrators' faraway gaze.

"There was a time," Horus whispers, "When I would receive orders from him alone. When we would speak every week for hours at a time."

"I know," Ferrus answers, though he wishes he could say the same.

"Ferrus, my brother," Horus murmurs, "When was the last time you spoke with our father?"

"Before Ullanor. So... three, maybe four years." It's not a long time at all and yet, the resentment he's built up for the flawed and mortal individuals he's left in charge is close to bursting.

"I am not much better," Horus admits, "We last spoke on Ullanor."

-

8.

It is madness, Ferrus protests. Our Father is eternal; we would know if he had died.

Ask for an audience with him then, Horus retorts, they will never let you speak to him. They will not let us, his sons, speak to him, our father, and you see nothing strange with this situation, my brother?

Yes, Ferrus wants to say, I have felt a similar doubt for the past years. But he shakes his head, stubborn to a fault. I will ask to speak to our Father, he says instead, and then you will have your answer.

Go then, Horus tells him. Go and try.

He tries. He fails. He tries again. He fails again. He's frustrated and humiliated and, more than that, furious, and only then do Horus' words come back in full force. This is ridiculous. Why should he have to answer to a High Lord of Terra? Why is High Lord of Terra allowed to communicated between father and son? And why is the Emperor absent from their private line in the Astronomican?

"I still don't believe you," he tells Horus, when he's visiting the other a second time, "But I will go with you to Terra to see the truth of the matter myself."

"You think I haven't tried?" Horus laughs bitterly, "Brother, you should know me better. Three times, I've tried to go to Terra, and three times I've been turned back."

"How did they manage to turn the Warmaster back?" Ferrus demands.

"Insurrections, slip-ups in compliance, Ork rampages. Nothing so large as to require the whole fleet, but they," he spits out their term for the bureaucrats with disgust, "insisted that I lead the charge."

"I will file my own request then," Ferrus declares, "Though I doubt they feel any more goodwill towards me," and then, when Horus raises an eyebrow, "I sent my Remembrancers away. Oh, and killed a High Lord's son for snooping around. My equerry was charged with his death," he frowns, still annoyed at that episode, "Nonetheless, we must exhaust our options."

"If it is as I feared," Horus starts, "Will you stand by my side?"

"My brother," Ferrus dips his head, "I dare not think so far ahead."

-

9.

In the end, his request is denied and a query for clarification is dismissed. With his Tech-Priests starving and his own hands thirsting for the touch of metal, the situation is grim. What options were left to him? The bureaucrats have cut him off entirely, so that he must ask his brothers for aid or pillage innocent -- compliant -- planets for supplies.

"You must ask yourself this," Horus notes, when they're meeting for a third time. The beginnings of a conspiracy are brewing, Ferrus can feel this much. Worse still, he's about to ally himself with it. "Either our Father is aware and responsible of these absurd orders being carried out in his name, or he is not. All evidence points to it being the latter so now we are left with the question: why?"

"And you think he's dead or near-dead," Ferrus answers, still uncomfortable with the idea of the Emperor as anything short of infallible.

"I don't see any other possibility," Horus shrugs.

"So then, what? We go to Terra, demand to see the Emperor, slaughter our way to the palace, and then?"

"We revive him."

Ferrus laughs. "As simple as that?"

"I don't see why not."

"And if he can't be revived?"

"So then you think him dead."

"I have said no such thing."

"But you suspect it."

"As do you."

They stand at an impasse, staring at one another across the table, before Horus reaches a hand out, clasping his shoulder. "Ferrus," he says, "I have left something out. When I threatened such a march on Terra, the Sigillite informed me it would be nothing short of dereliction of duty."

"Dereliction of duty! To pay a visit to the Emperor?!"

"There is a story, a Terran story. There were two generals asked to stand before the high court. The bureaucrats had come up with a punishment to enforce timeliness: tardiness meant an execution."

"Typical bureaucrats," Ferrus snorts.

"Well, these two generals meant to be on time, but their armies were stationed too far away and a storm had flooded the river. After they had forded it, it became apparent they wouldn't make the appointment on time."

"And then?"

"One general asks the other: what's the punishment for tardiness? He answers: death. And the same general asks: what's the punishment for rebellion? The other answers: death."

Ferrus laughs, leaning back and slapping a hand on his knee.

"Well, the first general tells the other, we're late." Horus looks at him, smiling the same mad smile. "Ferrus, I need you on my side. Will you pledge your loyalty to this cause?"

"You fill my dreams with sedition and death," Ferrus answers, shaking his head, "And still, I could never tell you no." He heaves a sigh, standing up, "I will commit myself to your rebellion, brother, on the condition that you take me with you to the Emperor's palace. I want to see our Father, in whatever state he may be in, at the end of this."

They clasp one another's hands, sharing a terse gaze for a moment. Ferrus shivers as the intensity of Horus' course of action sinks in. And then he's departing on his own ship, returning to his men, and mulling over what to tell Fulgrim in the meantime.

-

10.

"You can't be serious!" Fulgrim exclaims when Ferrus relays the information to him. He pats his shoulder and shakes his head, tossing his silver locks to and fro. "Ferrus, my best beloved brother, someday I shall teach you how to tell a joke."

But Ferrus maintains his neutral expression.

And Fulgrim's face falls.

"Oh Throne," he covers his mouth with a hand and leans further back on his seat. "Oh Throne, you are serious. You and Horus are planning on leading a march across the galaxy, because you think the Emperor, beloved by all, is dead?"

"Don't think this a first course of action, brother," Ferrus snaps, "It has come to this because all other options have been exhausted and the bureaucrats will not let us anywhere near him."

"I can understand that," Fulgrim nods sagely, "They're mortals after all. They've so many limitations, and in such small and imperfect forms," he shakes his head, "Perhaps if you hadn't sent away your Remembrancers, you might understand them a little better."

"I must content myself to leave the psychology of lesser beings to you, my brother."

"Well on the note of psychology," Fulgrim smiles, "It's as simple as that: they're scared of Horus. Well, not just him. They're scared of you and me and Angron -- well, that's well deserved -- and Roboute. All of us, really." He slips a hand back, tossing his hair back with a flick, "And who can say we're surprised. We're everything they're meant to be, but better."

"So you mean we should be sympathetic?" Ferrus asks, snarling.

"No, no, on the contrary, I would say if things are as the two of you suspect, then they're the ones who've caused whatever condition our Father is in. And for that alone," the Phoenician's eyes took on a steel-like glint, "Their heads must roll."

"You'll fight with us, then?" Ferrus asks, heartening considerably.

"For you?" Fulgrim smiles, taking his hand, "I would fight on any side, so long as I do not have to face you, my Gorgon."

It's his primary nickname and an oft-used statement at that. Nonetheless, it feels like a renewal of their vows of brotherhood and Ferrus cannot help closing the distance between them.

"My brother," he murmurs, embracing the other, "You cannot imagine how relieved I am, that we remain on the same side, still."

"You are a fool," Fulgrim chides, reaching up to stroke his back, "I would gladly walk into death for you, how many times must I tell you that?"

"I never tire of hearing it," Ferrus admits, "But you must never doubt that I would do the same."

-

11.

"Just like that?" Horus asks, openly incredulous.

"What did you expect?" Ferrus replies, raising an eyebrow.

"I had feared the worst, I confess. You know how the two of you are, matched humor for humor and blow for blow."

"We could never truly fight one another," Ferrus reassures him. "It is lonely in your court, I imagine, for you put too little value on our bonds of brotherhood."

Horus nods, agreeing with the appraisal. "I have you to thank, then, for bringing Fulgrim to our side. There are others, of course, but I cannot see a party of bureaucrats winning, when we've both the Gorgon and Phoenician."

"It is what we were made for," his brother sniffs.

"Insurrection?" Horus quips.

"Victory."

-

12.

"It's not the same," the youngest god complains. "He's not the same."

"I did not promise you that he would be the same," the second-youngest answers, "But he is certainly more entertaining now, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," she pouts, "And the other half does make a good match, I will give you that."

"Truly," the older god agrees, "One is incomplete without the other."

The idea of an individual being a part of a whole is thoroughly alien to the both of them. But they cannot deny the change of futures the Gorgon's fall has caused. She sighs, relenting. "Very well brother, you have bested me this time."

"It was a pleasure," her brother rasps, "I do enjoy a small match now and then, regardless of what the Sorcerer says, and this fallen brother is a wonderful champion. I have you to thank, for giving me the opportunity to acquire him."

"You're very welcome, brother dear," she begrudges a smile, "Very welcome indeed."


End file.
